


The View from Tomorrow

by oshare_banchou



Series: I Make My Own Luck [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Meallán, Saoirse Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oshare_banchou/pseuds/oshare_banchou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris has a revelation as he and Hawke flee Kirkwall. (potential endgame spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View from Tomorrow

     The ground speeds beneath Fenris’s feet, the picture a watercolor blur of rough scrub brush and delicate blue wildflowers, the latter of which look distinctly out of place in the stark wilderness that surrounds them. Hawke’s mabari, Meallán, lopes alongside Hawke, whose long strides keep pace beside the hound with an effortless grace. For all the Hightown perks and Champion’s regalia, Hawke is a veteran of Ostagar, a street-wise rogue who can weather Sundermount slopes as handily as Darktown sewers.

     But they have left Kirkwall far behind them now, infested sewers and all. Before them rise the lonely peaks of the Vimmark Mountains, valleys yawning between them as the summits loom watchfully over the river delta. This is hard, wild country with not so much as a farmhouse in sight for miles around, where highwaymen pose less of a threat than do roving packs of feral dogs and seething nests of giant spiders.

     Fenris’s greatsword slaps reassuringly against the backs of his thighs with every stride. The unforgiving weight of the red steel will no doubt leave welts in its wake that will blossom into a fierce array of bruises come morning, but the blade affords a peace of mind worth any level of discomfort. It is insurance against the all-too-familiar foes tailing them from Kirkwall—as well as against the unknown dangers that lie ahead.

     The light of the sun is nearly smothered by the ominous thunderheads that brew in the southwestern sky over the Waking Sea. What light manages to filter through the clouds glints proudly on the polished steel of Hawke’s twin daggers, but Fenris wonders grimly just how long the blades will remain pristine and untainted by the sweet tang of blood.

     Apart from their weapons, they travel light, each carrying about a week’s worth of rations and a few mementos they salvaged in their flight from Kirkwall. Hawke’s pack holds his journal, a keepsake ring bearing the Hawke family crest, a sealed letter addressed to him from Varric, and whatever coin had been ready at hand. Fenris has acquired little by the way of worldly possessions over the years, but he carries the battered and dog-eared copy of _A Slave’s Life_ that he and Hawke have been working through together, as well as a deck of playing cards that witnessed many winning hands and many more folded losses during long nights whiled away playing diamondback over a pint of the Hanged Man’s finest with Hawke and his merry band of misfits.

     Fenris catches himself reminiscing— _fondly_ , at that—about the good times they knew in Kirkwall, and he realizes that the sense of nostalgia tugging ever so slightly at his heartstrings just might be what they call _homesickness_ , that elusive, ephemeral feeling Fenris has never yet had cause or chance to experience first-hand. He has stolen glimpses of it before, however, in the wistful smile Hawke wears when he speaks of his family’s days in Lothering, in the little sighs Isabela spares for her erstwhile ship and crew. 

     This must be the way it feels to leave one’s home behind.

     Close friends forced to bid farewell. Betrayal laid bare, fueled by the workings of fools and fate. Kirkwall has been their home for nigh on a decade, a city riddled and scarred by defeat and triumph, countless tales of love and loss etched into every stone, but now its infamous black walls are no more than a speck on the distant horizon. 

     And now, Fenris finds himself fleeing the inevitable, even though he swore years ago to _stop_ running, to turn and face the wolves at his back. Once again, he is a fugitive. _A runaway._  

     All at once, the memories come flooding back. He feels the telltale edge of paranoia worming its way unbidden into his mind’s periphery. He grows hyperaware of their surroundings, of their vulnerability out in the open, to the point that every snap of a twig underfoot and each rustle in the scrub brush warrants a wary glance over his shoulder. Phantom enemies materialize in his mind’s eye, their identities concealed by shrouds of eddying mist. The gaping emptiness of the plains encircles him with all the menace and precision of a steel trap, suffocating him until the lyrium sings in his blood and his pulse thrums in his ears and he can’t quite inhale deeply enough to force air into his lungs—

     Hawke pulls up short when their feet sink into soft, silty ground. The river delta spreads out before them, its channels arrayed like a many-fingered hand yearning to grasp the sea.

     Fenris comes to a halt behind him, limbs trembling with the thrill of adrenaline as he wills his heart to slow its erratic dance. He finds solace in observing the practiced movements with which Hawke squints up at the sun behind the clouds, judging its height, and sweeps a glance downstream, studying the current.

     Hawke turns to face him, lips parted as if about to speak, but his expression clouds a shade darker when he stumbles over the look of wild intensity clearly broadcast by Fenris’s haunted eyes and guarded stance.

     Fenris brushes off the scrutiny with a small smile. “It’s nothing.”

     “If you say so,” Hawke ventures after a pause, eyeing Fenris as if he’s not entirely convinced.    

     The man knows him too well.

     “The water seems shallow here,” Hawke continues. “Let’s wade upstream a bit before crossing, just in case our friendly pursuers chance to grow half a brain among them and swallow their pride long enough to recruit some—and I quote: ‘filthy Fereldan dog lords and their fleabag beasts’ to track us.”

     Meallán barks once and growls in response, obviously displeased with the epithet. Hawke’s features light up with a rakish smile that Fenris finds oddly contagious.

     “Sound good?” Hawke queries, his gaze searching Fenris’s own. 

     Fenris regards Hawke steadily, drowning in the depths of those bottle-green eyes and losing himself in the sun-soaked timbre of that voice, just as he has a hundred times before. Fenris wonders if it is selfish of him to believe that a hundred times is still a million too few.

     But if it is indeed considered selfish to desire _one thing_ over the course of a lifetime, then Fenris will bear that sin with pride. For even freedom’s sweetest song would ring hollow without Hawke by his side.

     And then Fenris realizes his mistake. He is not running _away_ at all—rather, he is running _toward_ the start of something new, something wonderful. The start of a new life with Hawke.

     Fenris closes the distance between them in a heartbeat. He sweeps gauntleted fingers along the line of Hawke’s jaw and envelops him in a fiery kiss that skirts the border between _needy_ and _demanding_ and leaves them both weak in the knees. Fenris can feel the corners of Hawke’s mouth quirk into a cheeky smile as he skims his teeth playfully across Fenris’s lower lip. Fenris only kisses him harder for it.

     Meallán huffs impatiently, and the two finally draw apart, breathless but wanting more. Fenris knows it won’t do to linger here—not with their lead on their pursuers narrowing by the second. Without a word, he turns and begins mincing a path through the swampy bank of the delta, testing each step with one foot before committing his full weight. Hawke and Meallán follow behind him.

     As Fenris wades into the lapping current, holding his pack and greatsword safely above the waterline, he can practically hear the grin in Hawke’s next words:

     “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "runaway".


End file.
